So here’s the thing…I want to write. I need to write. I LIKE to write…but I got nothin’. I make lists, jot down random thoughts while in the grocery store, keep a dream dictionary, record strange non sequitur blog ideas, and then randomly just sit and start typing. I do all the things that have given me ample ammo in the past…but nothing sticks.
I tend to get hung up on feeling that, in order to justify doing this bloggy thing, I really need to have something to say. Something WORTH saying…something that a reader might find interesting, humorous or even annoying. Hell, I can only pray for those posts that might possibly even make coffee come out of someone’s nose…sigh.
But here I sit, whining that my once oh-so-sparkly life feels (dare I say it?) a bit normal. I have a regular old office job now, great friends, too many bills, two crazy cats and no boy friend. (Actually, that last one isn’t really so bad, considering some of the men I’ve let into my life in the past!) Just the same, all this normal is making this former ‘better strange than boring’ mantra’d gal just a little bit nervous.
Hell, the most excitement around here this week was wrasslin’ with Pickle to get him to the vet. (I only sustained a few scratches this time…the first vet trip for this boy with none of my blood drawn.) He actually broke out of one carrier (the cheap one) and I had to rummage around in the basement to find the smaller anti-Houdini version that he outgrew a while back. Then came the minor miracle of me stalking the wily beast with a pillow case, catching him for a second time, then successfully muscling him into his personal jail cell. It certainly wasn’t boring.
I started thinking that maybe the lesson here is that normal isn’t really so bad. Then I took another look at that face, and I decided it’s much more likely that the real lesson is that there’s nothing normal about Pickle.